Close Your Eyes
by KCS
Summary: Written for LiveJournal's SPN Summergen Exchange, for a S10 finale AU prompt. Gen, H/C & fluff, happy ending. See full prompt inside due to spoilers. Summary: There have been many times throughout Dean's life that he's told Sam to close his eyes.


**Title:** _Close Your Eyes_  
 **Characters:** Sam  & Dean, various  
 **Rating:** PG-13 for language  
 **Word Count:** 3932  
 **Warnings/Spoilers:** Obviously, (AU) spoilers for the S10 finale.  
 **Summary:** My take on the following prompt, adjusted to work in the canon that the Veil is still intact and therefore any Heaven-bound soul would still be wandering it along with Kevin and all the rest. **Original Prompt:** _Dean goes through with it and_ _kills Sam, and Death puts him…not in outer space, exactly. Somewhere more like a cage. Meanwhile, Sam's up in Heaven trying to find Bobby and gather allies to break Dean out of wherever Death put him. (In other words: Silly Death. As if being dead will stop Sam Winchester from looking for his brother.)_  
 **A/N** : Written for **spn_summergen** 's 2015 exchange, for **zubeneschamali** , cross-posted now that the exchange is over, and actually tweaked and proofread as I pushed the deadline to the edge due to a laptop malfunction. 

* * *

People say he doesn't remember, and that that's a good thing. He doesn't know why people say that; just because he's little doesn't mean he's _stupid_ , and anyhow your house pretty much blowing up in fire and smoke isn't something you just forget, okay. Especially when it takes your mommy with it.

He _does_ remember.

He remembers the smell of smoke and burning cloth and something else, something horrible, like rotten eggs. Remembers the heat, walls and floor and metal scorching his bare feet and hands when he feels for the doorknob carefully like he's been taught at preschool during fire drills. Remembers a bundle of sobbing baby brother being suddenly shoved into his arms – and then he's running, running for the front door and across the yard, not stopping even when he steps on a great big bug that crunches under his foot and a stick that scratches and then he's stopped, looking back up at Sammy's nursery window, and there's fire _everywhere_.

He remembers looking back down, seeing flames reflecting in Sammy's frightened eyes, tears running down his scrunched-up little face.

Remembers wondering what Sammy saw, that scared him so bad – was it just the fire? _Was it something worse -_

Then the house shakes, windows rattle, _danger danger._ He clutches the baby closer, ignoring the strangled squeak of protest before a tiny hand latches onto his pajama top.

"Close your eyes, Sammy," he whispers, as flames shoot out of the upstairs windows, reflecting scary in red and yellow and black. 

* * *

John Winchester is not a bad father, even if Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim and the nosy old lady in Apartment 7B say he is sometimes. Sure, he doesn't have a flipping clue what to do with Sammy, and never has, and he can be a real jerk sometimes to pretty much everybody, but he does his best, Dean knows that. It ain't easy, parenting a three-year-old.

Dean should know.

Dad is, however, being what Uncle Bobby calls _A Jackass_ right now.

"Dean, I swear to God, if you can't get that kid to shut his yap for just two seconds –"

Dean scowls, but grabs his shrieking Sammy with one hand, used to this by now. Hauling him bodily through the cluttered apartment and into the bathroom only takes a few seconds. It's one of Dad's Bad Nights, the ones where it must be something him and Mom used to celebrate – Dean knows it'll end with Dad locking himself in his room with a bottle of booze and not coming out until he can trust himself not to wig out on his kids.

Super.

Meanwhile, the youngest Winchester is screaming bloody murder, about not wanting to take a bath.

Dean considers crunching up half a Tylenol PM into Sam's nightly milk cup and just waiting it out, but he ain't a coward, and so he finally mans up and resorts to threatening no bedtime stories for a month. It's a truly terrible punishment to the little nerd, and Sammy finally raises his arms to let Dean yank the holey t-shirt over his head and plop him down into the bathtub, already cleaned thoroughly beforehand.

(This craphole of an apartment is super gross. Dean won't let Sammy run around barefoot because he can't tell what's ground into the puke-yellow carpet, and he keeps a can of Raid beside the bed, because hell if he'll let roaches chomp on his baby brother while he sleeps, thank you very much.)

"Don't wanna!"

"You're the one that pitches a fit if we try to cut it, squirt." Dean tries to pull Sam's hands out of his hair, where they are protectively covering it from the arrival of shampoo. He gives the stuff a sniff, then wrinkles his nose. Dad has no idea what brand to buy, obviously, and he can't blame Sam for not wanting to smell like Uncle Bobby; but the little brat has to be clean, so Old Man Smell it is. "Long hair, you wash it."

"You always get soap in my eyes!"

"I do not!"

"Do too!"

Dean loses patience with the argument and just dumps a hefty glob of shampoo on Sam's head, wishing not for the first time that Dad would just let him do the shopping so he could get that baby shampoo Sammy likes; but dad says seven isn't old enough to go to the store alone, even if it's old enough to shoot the legs off an old plastic chair behind Pastor Jim's parsonage last month.

Now, Sam shrieks at the chilled sensation, and Dean sighs, slowly massaging it into the toddler's unruly mop.

Sam folds his arms and glares at him. If looks could kill, Dean would be salted and burned by now.

Dean pokes him in the stomach, then goes back to shampooing after receiving the giggle he was aiming for.

"K, now rinse time – then you can play for a while, deal?"

"Don't get it in my eyes!"

"Then don't tip your head forward, doofus."

"'M not a doofers."

"Doofus. And you are, if you keep moving like that. Head back. Sammy, close your eyes." 

* * *

"Oh, God." They skid to a cautious halt at the edge of the balcony. "Dean, she just –"

"I know, Sam."

Dean swears silently at himself, his father, the ghost, and everything else he can think of; this was supposed to be a run-of-the-mill hunt, just a basic scouting mission to check the witnesses' stories surrounding a haunted mansion prior to a double salt-and-burn. In and out, no problems to speak of; that was why John had suggested he bring Sam – at ten years old, it was time he started coming along on hunts, to see how the process went so he could begin doing research for them.

Dean had pitched a fit, as there was no way in hell he wanted Sam dragged into the business so young, but in the end John had won, as he always did.

And here they were, in the middle of a mansion very obviously sporting not one but at least three ghosts, two of which had already progressed into vengeful spirit territory – judging from the fact that the idiot teenagers who had decided to spend the night exploring the place on a dare had just been pushed off the third story balcony by a very pissed-off lady of the evening.

Sam is currently white as the ghost himself, just standing there staring open-mouthed at the edge of the broken railing, shotgun held limply in a shaking grip.

Dean shakes his head again, edges forward to the jagged railing, and peers over, hoping against hope that the kids had been lucky – he recognized them from school, one of them he'd been hoping to coax under the bleachers at the next soccer game…

No such luck. It wasn't pretty.

"We need to get outta here before they come back," he said grimly, while re-loading salt shells into his rifle and snapping it shut. "C'mon. C _'mon,_ Sam, let's go!"

He practically hauls his shaken brother down the stairs, fuming all the while that the poor kid had to see this, snarls at the ghost that tries to block their path and takes great pleasure in blasting her full of rock salt, blowing through her snarling features without a second thought. Sam strangles out a warning as the second appears just ahead of them on the veranda, and quick reflexes snap off a second shot before Sam can even raise the shaking rifle.

Immediately, in the silence that follows, he sees his brother start to turn toward the mess on the sidewalk, below the balcony where the kids had fallen three stories.

"No, don't," he says quickly, quietly, as he moves up beside his brother, between him and the grisly sight. "Just keep walking, hang on to me. Y'don't need to see this. Close your eyes, Sammy." 

* * *

"I know 's just a cupcake, but at least I found a candle, yeah? They don't have much at a Gas-n-Sip…"

Sam's dimples emerge in a sweet smile, and Dean's shoulders relax fractionally. He doesn't have the heart to tell the kid that he had to crawl around the last four rest stops and eventually steal the change out of a trucker's ash tray to even pay for that, since John is on one of his nothing-but-ammunition-constitutes-necessities kicks.

"Well, close your eyes and make a wish, already!" 

* * *

It's only been two days, but it feels like two years.

Might as well be, since it's going to be more than that.

But when his phone rings, Dean answers on the third ring. A little warily, ignoring John's growled protests as he stumbles outside the motel room to take it, but he still answers.

And he always will, provided he's wanted.

"You okay, dude?"

 _"Um…"_ Sam's voice sounds a little strained, he doesn't need almost two decades of listening to pick up on that.

"…That a no?"

 _"Maybe?"_ Increasing now in pitch with every second, as Dean hears a cut-off mumbling, maybe telling a roommate to leave or something?

"Dude, are you having a panic attack?"

 _"…Mmmaybe?"_

Dean sighs, calming and soothing and very familiar; this is expected territory, and he's a little flattered Sam still feels like he can call him, panicking alone in a dorm room. "Sam, calm down. You're gonna be fine. Just 'cause dad's bein' a dick doesn't mean he really thinks you can't make it out there – hell, he knows you can, that's why he's bein' like this. He knows you're not comin' back."

He hears a loud gulp of air – Sam swallowing hard, obviously trying to control his breathing.

"So chill, okay? I'm in Alabama lookin' into some voodoo cult, don't have time to come rescue your princess pansy ass if you go fainting on everybody."

Sam chuckles. _"Yeah, okay, Dean."_

"Now, go to sleep. 'S like one in the morning there, isn't it?"

 _"Yeah…oh. Which is like three in the morning for you, right?"_

"Yeah," Dean replies dryly, glancing absently at the neon light of the motel sign. "You're welcome."

 _"Sorry…"_

"Mmhm. Just quit bein' a drama queen and get some sleep."

Sam yawns, and there's a shuffling of soft flutters into the phone – probably squirreling down into bed if he knows the kid, phone held close to his ear to hear a familiar voice. In his mind's eye, he can see Sam's wide eyes – still the childlike innocence he remembers of years gone by – starting to close slowly as he starts to get sleepy.

He sighs, wondering if they'd ever stood a chance of things being different, and trying to be grateful that Sam has gotten the life he's apparently always wanted. "G'night, Sam."

 _"Night, Dean. And…thanks, you know. For picking up…and…"_

"Dude. Close your eyes and go the heck to sleep." 

* * *

Hell has a way of distorting memories, even the strongest ones. Outside the bounds of physical time, the metaphysical stretches of too-long years crammed into months once topside have screwed with his brain more than he wants to admit, even if it's only (thankfully) in flashes here and there, ominous and threatening at the corner of his vision, lurking somewhere in the recesses of his guarded mind.

But somehow, some way, even the worst of tortures cannot quite erase the ingrained instincts of an elder brother, despite the growing chasm between them, despite months of Sam's new self-sufficiency and Dean's inability to fully re-integrate himself in this new post-Hell world.

This, at least, he still remembers.

Sam is a sappy, clingy, all-around _pain in the ass_ when he's sick.

After a sleepless night spent forcing Tylenol down a swollen throat, watching Sam's temperature climb toward the ceiling, and switching patiently between turning the air on and then the heat, back and forth - being told in an injurious sniffle that the brand of orange juice he'd bought last night is too _pulpy_ finally puts him over the edge of his patience.

He tosses the damp washcloth onto Sam's scrunched-up face and stalks over to the table to pick up his keys, pinching the bridge of his nose in a bid for patience.

Sam's wet _hurk_ of dismay from behind him elicits only a tiny shred of remorse.

"Deeeeean!"

" _What,_ Sam."

Puppy eyes, fever-bright, peer at him from over top of the ancient plaid blanket he'd brought in from the car last night, the ratty motel not having had any extras available. Sam coughs harshly, sucking in a wet gasp of air under the blankets, and blinks again at him sadly.

"'M sorry."

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, wondering vaguely if Lucifer wants Sam because he thinks all the Chosen Vessel will have to do isto use those eyes on Michael and the fight will be over before it begins.

"Go back to sleep, I'm gonna fill up Baby and get some breakfast," he sighs, tucking the blanket back in around Sam's stupidly long legs, as his feet have started sticking out into the cold air.

"No more juice." The words sound more like _nomajews_ , but Dean is well-versed in Sam-speak, even after forty years of hearing barely anything but bastardized Enochian or terrified screaming.

"Got it," he replies dryly.

"Don't like floaty things in my juice."

"I _got_ it, Sam."

"And I wanna donut."

"Okay, princess. Right after the DayQuil."

Sam yawns widely, sucks in a mouthful of blanket fluff, and splutters fuzz for a few seconds while Dean pockets his wallet and cell phone.

"What if somebody calls 'bout the case, Dean?" Sam calls after him, dismally raising his head from the pillow as Dean opens the door.

He rolls his eyes fondly. "Like you could see straight enough to answer the phone, Einstein. Close your eyes and rest until I get back, okay?"

Sam is already snoring the sleep of the deeply drugged by the time the door shuts. 

* * *

"You will never – ever – hear me say that you, the real you, is anything but good."

The words barely register, so deep is he in the tunnel-visioned mission at hand; one solution, and only one, that will suffice to rid the world of the Mark which has twisted his soul beyond recognition. Only one way to ensure that he will never again harm another person, and that no one will ever be able to bring him back.

Unfortunately, that means some collateral damage. And Sam doesn't seem to be taking that news very well.

"But you're right. Before you hurt anyone else, you have to be stopped. At any cost." Sam looks up at him, and damned if those stupid puppy eyes don't almost derail his intent – but for the flaming, searing agony of the Mark's indignation at being so thwarted. And for once, once in his life, Dean decides to be selfish. He can't fight any longer; and this, this tie they have, this dangerously inexplicable bond that threads their lives together so irrevocably? Is no longer enough to beat into submission what the Mark is wreaking upon his soul.

And he cannot, _will_ not, drag anyone, especially Sam, back down to Hell with him this time.

"I understand. Do it," Sam says, quietly. An absolution: permission, pardon, forgiveness, all in one.

He doesn't deserve the gift, but he will take what he can get, to carry into the next life – whatever form that is going to take.

He barely hears Death behind him, but the scythe feels heavy, hot, _right_ in his hand – nearly as correct as the weight of the Blade. As he turns back, the Horseman's eyes boring flinty-hard into his back, Sam's in turn fill with unshed tears, mirrored as Sam stares up at him– one last time, as if to remember his brother forever.

Dean does not want to be remembered like this forever.

"Sammy, close your eyes," he whispers. 

* * *

It's not so bad, really.

Could certainly be worse. He had been imagining outer space, the dark side of the moon – tossed into the freaking sun, he hadn't been kidding when he asked Cas – or some distant galaxy.

He wouldn't have been surprised at being dropped in Purgatory, or even something closer to Hell or the Cage; somewhere where he could indulge the Mark's bloodlust to its evil heart's content without a shred of guilt or hesitation. After all, that's where monsters like him belong, isn't it?

But this is almost…normal.

Vaguely reminiscent of the Djinn's dream-world from years gone by, except it's a little hazier here, a little less…structured, perhaps is the word. It may have been years since he arrived; it may only have been hours – here there is no meaning to the word Time, apparently, and he is not quite sure that he is actually occupying space. It's a strangely singular-dimensional plane of existence, but he leads a fairly uneventful life, day to day amusing himself with various activities. He has plenty of books to read, hobbies to explore, languages to learn, basic hunts to go on, journaling to do for a Men of Letters which no longer exists…

He should be fairly content, even grateful, all things considered.

Except, that when he was placed here, Death did absolutely nothing to dull the memories.

The Mark is nothing more than faint scar tissue now, a dormant tattoo of accusation that will never be fully erased – a permanent reminder for the rest of his very long life, of how his choices brought about such terrible consequences, wrought such pain in the lives of the people he loved, harmed so many undeserving, innocent souls.

A sick, stark reminder of what his last act on the physical Earth had been.

He remembers reading a true story as a kid, about an abandoned dog who died of loneliness. He hadn't really believed it was possible, then.

He knows better now. Were it not for the curse of immortality, tethered to his soul by that cursed symbol on his arm…

Well. He contemplates, not for the first time, if perhaps dying and returning as a demon might be preferable, in this place – for at least then, he would not have the pain of Memory to deal with.

But there is one strange day – it may be weeks later, it may be decades – when something changes. The air, charged with some unidentifiable energy that is instantly recognizable as alien, not belonging to this plane. Odd, since other than one single visit from Death himself, and one some time later by a reaper checking on his state of mind, Dean has never been privy to any alteration in the routine of this strange place.

But this…this is different. The sheer novelty of the sensation is enough to energize him, after so long spent in monotony; but he has no time to enjoy the anticipation. One moment he is pacing around his gray, hazy construct of a home, and the next –

The next, he is overwhelmed in a wash of light and color and – oh God, he had forgotten what it even was like – _sound_ , so much of it that it is almost deafening.

Eyes screwed up against the screaming hues, blinding after the muted, sad tones of his constructed reality, he shakes his head against the noise, realizing after a moment it really isn't all that loud – just a person talking. The colors aren't that bright; just warm reds and blues and the clear yellowish glow of a lampshade somewhere nearby.

Hands slowly lowering from his eyes, he stares around him at a scene which is rapidly coming into focus – familiar, warm, welcoming. He barely dares to breathe.

Then –

"Dean?"

He spins around so fast he nearly falls over a chair. Sam looks…well…alive, for one thing – uncertain, hesitating a few inches away, but eyes bright and eager.

Nothing like the last time they had seen each other, not like when he had –

He swallows hard. "Sammy?"

"Did it work this time?" Sam hesitantly reaches out, touches his shoulder with a light grip. To what looks like both their surprise, his hand doesn't pass through in a weird metaphysical dream-state - it actually makes contact, and remains there for a moment, warm and reassuringly solid.

Dean had no idea how much a person could miss human touch, until now.

He blinks, realizing Sam had asked a question. "Huh?"

"You're really here? You made it through?"

"Uh…" He glances down at himself, noticing in some surprise that he's still wearing the same clothes he was when he left the Earthly physical plane, but they are in new condition now. "Yeah?"

Sam's face breaks into an enormous smile, dimples appearing on the instant.

Dean looks back up, slowly smiles as well, though he still doesn't really know why.

Then Sam decks him.

From the floor of the Bunker, he looks up through a red-tinged haze and silently whimpers, hoping his nose isn't broken.

"You friggin' jerk, you deserved that," Sam mutters, crouching down in front of him. He flexes his right fingers gingerly, then reaches for Dean's face, gently turning it to one side to look at the damage.

"Kida, yah," he mutters nasally, as Sam carefully feels around his rapidly-swelling nose.

"I mean, you know how embarrassing it is to have to keep explaining to spirits in the Veil that I'm stuck in there because my notorious Winchester _brother_ put me there?"

Dean winces, not from the twinge around his tender nose. "Sammy, I thought –"

"I know damn well what you thought," Sam growls dangerously, fingers tight on his face. "And both you and Death should have known better than to think just putting me out of the way like that would keep me from trying to save you from the fate the Mark had in store for you, Dean."

"Yeah."

"You're an idiot."

"Yeah."

"You didn't even realize that the Mark basically disappeared after you killed me, did you? You could have just stayed on Earth, Dean," Sam sighs. Dean blinks, then stares down at his arm, where he observes that Sam is actually right – even here, in the presence of another being for the first time in however long, the Mark has not even flared once into life.

"The Mark was satisfied when it had drawn fraternal blood, Dean. The spell lifted itself, the power of the Mark negated once you killed me. You didn't have to be exiled to wherever the hell that was afterwards, man."

Dean stares at his brother in dismay.

"Death knew that would happen, Dean – he was trying to remove us both from the playing field, probably because we've long overstayed our welcome on Earth. We played right into his hands."

Dean swears under his breath, regret sharper than ever now – for despite whatever miracle Sam's pulled to somehow get them both back to the land of the living, they've wasted so much time, and he has done irreparable damage to their relationship through this entire mess.

Sam watches him process this, patiently waiting for him to absorb the pertinent information on his own time, and then gives him a smile that says all is forgiven, stupid affectionate fool that he is.

"How'd you get out of the Veil, Sam?"

Sam's eyebrows quirk together slightly. "Uh…where do you think you are, Dean?"

Dean glances around again. "The Bunker?"

"Huh." Sam shrugs. "Well, it's as good a construct as Heaven's memories would be, I suppose. Dude, it took all the mojo I had to pull you out of that crazy-ass pocket dimension, there's no way I could find a way to crack open a portal out of the Veil from the inside. Not alone, anyway."

"So…I'm dead?"

"Tomato, to-mah-to. You would rather I left you in there?"

"God, no." Dean shudders. "Sammy…I just…"

Sam's eyes light up, warm as a summer evening and just as Home. "You're an idiot, Dean," he says fondly, before Dean finds himself with two armfuls of huggy Sasquatch.

"Yeah," he chokes out into Sam's shoulder.

"Welcome home, Dean."

Dean closes his eyes, and smiles.


End file.
